POV : Maluck’s Hotel Suite – Team Meeting

  Maluck clapped his hands as the last of his crew—Chloe, Theo, Cass, and Soi—settled into their seats. Near the doorway, Jamal and Mike hovered awkwardly, looking like a pair of school kids on their first day—equal parts excited and absolutely unsure of what they’d just walked into.

  “Alright, everyone,” Maluck said, grinning. “Meet our two newest recruits—Jamal Williams and Mike Spector.”

  Jamal gave a casual two-finger salute. “What’s up?”

  Mike just nodded, keeping it professional. “Nice to meet you all.”

  Chloe, lounging in her chair with a cup of coffee, raised an eyebrow. “Wait, the charity cases?”

  Maluck laughed. “Former charity recipients. Current Lucky Star employees.”

  Soi leaned back, arms crossed, surveying the group with his usual unimpressed expression. “Alright, everyone—meet Jamal, our resident smooth talker, and Mike, the legal guy who’s now actually qualified for his job.”

  Mike exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Barely hired and already getting roasted. Fantastic.”

  Theo smirked. “Hey, don’t take it personally. Soi roasts everyone.”

  Cass nodded. “Yeah, it’s basically his love language.”

  Chloe sipped her drink, completely unfazed. “If he didn’t roast you, that would mean he doesn’t respect you.”

  Mike arched an eyebrow. “So, what—you’re saying this is a good thing?”

  Jamal clapped him on the shoulder. “Nah, man, it just means you’re officially part of the dysfunction.”

  Cass gave Maluck a skeptical look. “Okay, but what exactly are they doing here? Like, what’s their job?”

  Maluck gestured grandly. “Jamal here has the rare and terrifying ability to talk anyone into anything. We’re talking elite-tier social engineering. We needed a guy like him.”

  Jamal grinned. “Awwww shucks.”

  Chloe squinted at him. “Wait. You’re the dude who talked his way past hotel security, aren’t you?”

  Jamal smirked. “Guilty.”

  Cass shook her head. “Great. Another charming bastard to deal with.”

  Maluck turned to Mike. “And Mike? Well, he’s already a lawyer in every way that matters—just needed the paperwork to match. So we made that happen.”

  Soi snorted. “You bought him a law degree.”

  Mike sighed. “Listen, I could have done this the legit way.”

  Theo smirked. “But now you’re getting paid well and practicing law now instead of five years from now. You’re welcome.”

  Mike rubbed his temples. “Yeah, thx.”

  Chloe leaned forward. “Alright, so Jamal’s our con man and Mike’s our lawyer. Wait—aren’t those basically the same thing, just with different job titles?”

  She laughed, then tilted her head. “So… what exactly are we doing with them?”

  Maluck grinned. “Oh, you’re gonna love this. Jamal’s first job? Digging up dirt on the higher-ups of Cars 4 a Better Future. We need leverage.”

  Jamal’s eyes lit up. “Now we’re talking.”

  Maluck turned to Mike. “And you? You’re going to make sure that whatever we do is… technically legal. And helping Jamal sort out his messy life.

  Mike smirked. “I like how you said ‘technically.’”

  Maluck spread his hands. “Gotta keep things fun.”

  Theo clapped his hands together. “Well, boys, welcome to Lucky Star. You’re officially part of the morally questionable, highly profitable, and deeply entertaining machine that is Maluck’s empire.”

  Jamal grinned. “Now this is the kind of job I can get behind. And thanks Mike, my life really is kinda a shit show.”

  Mike sighed. “I’m way too smart to be here.”

  Chloe smirked. “And yet… here you are.”

  Maluck laughed. “Alright, let’s get to work.”

  ****

  Mike stepped out of his car, stretched, and took a deep breath, looking around the familiar yet completely different test venue. The Law Society of Alberta’s testing center was exactly what he expected—sterile, quiet, and mildly soul-crushing. He had walked into places like this dozens of times before, but this was the first time he was here for himself.

  ‘Feels kinda neat,’ he thought. ‘Before, I’d go in, grind out the answers, and some rich kid would become a lawyer. Now, my hard work finally means that I can become a lawyer. It’s kinda weird.’

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  A smirk tugged at his lips. It was almost poetic.

  The bar exam was a two-day affair, but today’s section—the written portion—was supposed to take two hours. Normally, people took every single minute, double-checking their answers, agonizing over legal ethics questions, and mentally debating case law like their careers depended on it.

  Mike? He already knew the drill.

  When he approached the check-in desk and handed over his ID, the woman behind the counter squinted at him.

  “Have I seen you before?” she asked, tilting her head.

  Mike kept his expression perfectly neutral. “Nope. Definitely my first time here. Absolutely. Definitely.”

  She gave him a slightly suspicious look but shrugged, handing over the test materials.

  The exam booklet was thick, full of complex legal scenarios designed to test critical reasoning, knowledge of Canadian law, and ethics. For most people, it was a gauntlet.

  Mike barely suppressed a yawn as he flipped through it.

  ‘Yep. Same format. Same tricks. Same nonsense questions designed to confuse people who don’t actually know their stuff.’

  He worked through it with calm efficiency, marking answers with zero hesitation. Thirty minutes in, he was done.

  As he stood and walked to the front, the test proctor eyed him like he’d just slapped a judge in open court.

  “You… finished?” she asked slowly.

  “Yep,” Mike said, handing over his materials.

  She hesitated. When someone turned in an exam this fast, it usually meant one of two things: either they were a certified genius… or they had given up on it completely.

  Mike just gave her a polite nod and strolled out like he hadn’t just obliterated the test faster than some people finished reading the instructions.

  ***

  The next day, Mike pulled up to the Law Society of Alberta’s testing center for the second day of the bar exam, sipping his coffee and feeling completely at ease.

  ‘Alright, let’s get this over with.’

  Day 1 had been multiple-choice and written response—a test of legal theory, ethics, and case law. Most people struggled because they had to memorize statutes, recall legal precedents, and navigate tricky wordplay designed to trip them up.

  Day 2? Completely different beast.

  This was the performance-based section—where candidates had to apply their legal knowledge in practical scenarios. The exam involved long-answer case studies, drafting motions, and responding to client situations as if they were already practicing lawyers. This was the day where most people realized just how little they actually knew about being a lawyer.

  For Mike? It was the easiest thing in the world.

  He walked through the front doors, flashed his ID, and immediately recognized the same test proctor from yesterday.

  She stared at him, her expression unreadable.

  “Back again,” she said, handing him his materials.

  “Crazy, right?” Mike replied, flashing a harmless, well-practiced smile.

  She said nothing, narrowing her eyes slightly before gesturing toward the testing room.

  Mike took his seat and flipped open the test booklet.

  ‘Oh, this again? Yeah, this is just the advanced version of what I used to do for other people.’

  The case analysis section? Handled. The ethics hypotheticals? Too easy. The procedural filing exercise? Laughable.

  While others sweated over whether to file a motion under civil or criminal procedure, Mike had actually filed real motions before. And not just once or twice—he had done this for years, for a price.

  Back when he was technically not a lawyer, but extremely good at pretending to be one, Mike had a very lucrative side hustle. Law students made beer money by tutoring. Mike? He made real money ghostwriting for lawyers who were too lazy—or too incompetent—to do their own work.

  His rates were reasonable. A basic legal memo ran about $300. Demand letters that sounded just threatening enough without being illegal? $500. A full-motion draft, properly formatted and court-ready, would start at $2,000 minimum.

  And the best part? It wasn’t technically illegal.

  Mike never signed anything. He never claimed to be a lawyer. He just provided assistance to overworked legal professionals who happened to use his work exactly as he wrote it—word for word.

  So now, sitting in an exam room while some poor soul agonized over how to write one demand letter, Mike couldn’t help but feel a little smug.

  Because unlike them, he had already gotten paid to do this.

  He stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles, and set into the test at a comfortable but borderline disrespectful speed.

  Twenty minutes later, the proctor watched—again—as Mike stood up, grabbed his materials, and casually strolled to the front.

  She actually leaned forward, staring at him like he was some kind of anomaly.

  “You… finished?” she asked, slowly blinking.

  Mike placed his answer sheet on the desk. “Yep.”

  She looked at the test. Then back at him. Then at the test again.

  “…Do you even read the questions?”

  Mike grinned. “Sometimes.”

  She sighed, visibly giving up on trying to understand him, and took his test materials. After a moment, she checked his ID one more time, then slid a completion form across the desk.

  “Sign here,” she said flatly.

  Mike signed, gave her a polite nod, and casually strolled toward the exit.

  Hours later, when the real struggle was over, a few late finishers sat outside, looking absolutely drained. Someone cracked open a water bottle like it was their first drink in days.

  “Man, that was brutal,” one guy groaned, rubbing his temples. “The case law section alone felt like it took a year off my life.”

  “No kidding,” another muttered. “I had to reread question five like four times. The wording was insane.”

  A third guy slumped onto a bench, staring into the void. “I guarantee I failed. There was just too much—” He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly remembering something. “Wait, remember that guy who finished in like… half an hour?”

  “Oh yeah,” the first guy snorted. “Dude probably handed in a blank page and left to go day drink.”

  “Or just Christmas-tree’d the whole test and bailed,” someone else added.

  “Right?” The first guy shook his head. “Who the hell walks out that fast? You have two hours, man. At least pretend to check your answers.”

  They all laughed, completely convinced that guy was doomed.

  What they didn’t know was that, by the end of the day, that same guy’s name would be making rounds across the board for getting full marks.

  ***

  Later that day, across town, a phone call was happening that Mike knew nothing about.

  “Hey, buddy,” the test administrator said, reclining in his chair. “You still looking for talent at your firm?”

  “Yeah, why?” his friend on the other end asked.

  “I got a student here who just scored 100% on the bar exam.”

  “Full marks?” The lawyer on the other end scoffed. “Has the test gotten easier?”

  “Nope.” The administrator shook his head. “It’s just— I don’t know, man. He finished in thirty minutes.”

  “Thirty minutes?!”

  “Yeah. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he had seen the test before or cheated somehow—but I was watching him the whole time. The guy didn’t even glance around.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Okay, yeah. Get me his information. What’s his name?”

  “Mike Spectre. Says he graduated from… uh…” The administrator squinted at the test records. “Kingston Metropolitan University?”

  His friend let out a short laugh. “Wait, you mean the knockoff version of Kingston Dominion University?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “Damn. You know, sometimes even a garbage school cranks out a good student.”

  “Guess so”

  What neither of them knew, however, was that all their efforts to poach Mike would be completely useless.

  Because Mike already had a job.

  And that job?

  Was way more fun than a corporate law firm could ever be.

  ***